Epitáfio
by Lovisa Cansino
Summary: There is so much he should have done. He wonders if it's too late now.
1. I

**Disclaimer: **I wrote an e-mail to Santa. Apparently, although I have been a good girl this year, there are just some things you can never have...

**X**

_I should have complicated less, worked less. I should have seen the sun set._

**X**

"Mrs. Hughes!"

"Yes, Mr. Carson?" her calm voice the complete antagonist to his.

"May I ask what possessed you to change the dessert for tonight's dinner at the absolute last minute?"

She feels the urge to turn around and look at him, but knows that if she does, her eyes will be alight with annoyance, and she does not want to give him that satisfaction. So she keeps her back to him, pretending she's interested in the book she's reading.

"Her Ladyship asked me to. Apparently Sir Richard is not very fond of apple pie"

"The least you could have done was to warn me beforehand!" He closes the door of her sitting room behind him.

"Whatever is the matter this time, Mr. Carson?" She sighs. She gets rather tired of his constant nagging on a daily basis. It is, she thinks, so easy to forget she has such strong feelings for the man when he decides to act like an overgrown child.

"The wine, Mrs. Hughes!" instead of sitting down in the armchair he usually occupies when in her sitting room, he takes one step closer to her, and she knows his intention is to intimidate her.

"What about the wine, Mr. Carson?" she asks, and keeping her voice void of anger takes all the composure she has at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night.

"What about the wine" He mutters, as if asking about it is the most preposterous thing she has ever done "Mrs. Hughes, just this morning, when Mrs. Patmore informed me we would be serving an apple pie, I picked a strong wine to complement the flavor said dessert. Now, imagine my surprise when, upon serving the wine, I find that it is not a pie that it will be drank with, but a _chocolate soufflé_!"

She fights the urge to smile at his antics. Only Charles Carson would get this upset over something as silly as wine.

"I'm afraid I still do not understand, Mr. Carson" she says, looking at him for the first time since their conversation began. He's towering over her; she had not noticed him getting closer as they talked.

"Of course you do not understand, Mrs. Hughes. After all, your duties in this house do not go as far as having the responsibility to serve the family. How could you understand the differences between the brands of wine when your world consists solely of playing mother to the maids?"

He shocks her. Never, in all the years they had worked together, had he managed to diminish her and her job this way. And why for? Because she had, amidst all the drama she had endured that afternoon, forgotten to tell him Mrs. Patmore had changed the dessert. She stares at him, and forgets that she vowed not to let her anger take the better of her tonight. Taking a deep breath, she tries to keep her mouth from blurting out her thoughts, to avoid an endless argument that would only leave them angry, annoyed and exhausted the next morning.

"Mr. Carson, would you be so kind as to leave? Usually I would offer you a cup of tea, but I do not think I would enjoy your company this evening." She turns her back to him, hoping he will leave without saying another word. She sighs, thinking, not for the first time that night, how easy it is to be greatly annoyed by this man "Have a good night, Mr. Carson"

She does not turn back around until she hears the door closing.

**X**

He sighs as he opens the door to his bedroom. It had gotten out of hand. What was he thinking, barging in her sitting room this late at night, to complain about something neither one of them could change? Dinner was long gone now, and His Lordship had not seemed to notice the wine was not the right one for a chocolate soufflé.

Truth was, when he noticed he was serving the wrong wine, his heart had stopped for a second or two, as silly as it sounds.

"_The world does not turn on the style of a dinner."_

"_My world does."_

His words still rang in his ears. It's not that they were not true; it's that he _wished_ they were not. Saying them aloud, especially to Mrs. Hughes, only made them more real, and, at the risk of sounding like a sentimental old fool, he knew his world, his life, _should_ not revolve around what wine should be served at dinner, or what cutlery they should use. But, what was there other than this?

One answer came to mind, or rather, one woman. The same one that had occupied all his thoughts, waking or otherwise, for the past fifteen years. Shaking his head, he tried to keep his mind from going down that particular road tonight. Not tonight, not when he had most likely managed to hurt her to a point she would not even want to speak to him the next morning.

He looks out his window, and, staring at the darkness, wonders just when it got so late. He does not know if he is thinking about the night, or about his life. It would not surprise him if it were the latter, given his somewhat wistful mood tonight. Had life passed him by too quickly? Was it too late? Too late for what? For the dreams he had, long ago, given up on dreaming?

Lying down in his bed, he unsuccessfully tries to remember when was the last time he had seen the sun set.

**X**

**A.N.:** I want to start by thanking every one of you who read (and reviewed) my first story, Sad Old Fool. I had some wonderful feedback, and I am ever so grateful for it. Now, about this one. Leave it to me to decide to start a multi-chaptered story right at the end of the semester, when no one has time for anything. But, well. I was listening to a song today (I wonder how many fics started out like this) and it made me think of our favorite couple. Mostly about Charles, actually, so this story will probably be more from his point of view, although I'll try to alternate it between the two of them a bit. The line in the beginning of the chapter, in italic (there will be one each chapter), is taken from the song, and will all be as if from Charles' point of view. The rating is K+ for now, but it may go up in later chapters. It's definitely angsty, but, who knows, maybe it'll get flufflier towards the end… As English is not my first language, I'd appreciate if you would let me know any kind of grammar mistakes I might have made. If you made it this far, then you should probably know I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this one, but I do hope you decide it is worth your while and stick with it, if only to find out if it has a future.


	2. II

_Fortune will protect me as I walk on distractedly._

**X**

"Mr. Carson, a word, if you would"

He stops, and knows he should turn around. Charles Carson is many things, but a coward is not one of them. Except it is, he admits. He is faced with the reality cowardice brings him every single day of his life.

He doesn't turn; he waits for her to walk around him.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes?" he says. His voice does not betray his fear. 'I am sorry. I am so, so terribly sorry' he thinks, and wishes she could read his mind in this particular occasion, as she has done so many times before.

"Good morning" she starts, and by the way she looks at him, he doesn't get the impression she will start yelling at him in the middle of the servant's hall. He sighs, somewhat relieved.

"Good morning"

"Mr. Carson, I was wondering if it would be possible for me to take my day off today. I know it's quite short notice, and my next day off isn't for another week, but something came up which I must tend to immediately" her voice, he notices, is calm and even, but she doesn't look at him. He begins to wonder what the spot right above his right shoulder has that's so fascinating.

"Is everything alright, Mrs. Hughes?" he thinks of her sister, whom she has, he remembers, stopped talking about for a while now.

"Quite, Mr. Carson, thank you. An old acquaintance of mine is passing through Downton today, and would like to meet with me before going back home"

He hesitates for a moment. He doesn't remember her meeting with any old friends in many, many years. In fact, the last time she ever talked about non-Downton related acquaintances had been a very long time ago. Before the war, even. He just cannot remember whom it was that she had gone to see… Maybe it was the same person this time?

"In that case, Mrs. Hughes, I think we can manage without you for today" he nods, and a small smile graces his features, and for a second, it is like nothing happened the night before.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson" but she does not see his smile, he realizes, as she turns around and walks away.

He spends the whole day without her, but she's in his thoughts constantly; permanently, even. But today there is a nagging in the back of his mind – he is annoyed because he cannot for the life of him remember whom she had gone to the village to see all those years ago. Does it matter?, he asks himself countless times, and the answer is most quick to come: of course not. But it is just one of those things that simply do not let your mind rest. Like a song you are trying to remember the name of, and the lyrics are stuck to your head all day.

He thinks about what he said to her the night before, and wonders how he can make it up to her. Maybe he should just apologize? But then again, the both of them were the masterminds of reticence. However, they had never been in such a hurtful situation before… He debates it the entire day.

When he retires to his pantry after dinner, she still hasn't come back. He worries – Elsie Hughes is a very sensible woman, surely she knows it does not do for the housekeeper of Downton Abbey to be out in the village at such a time. But what if something happened to her?, he mutters to himself. What if this friend of hers does not see fit to accompany her home? Will she walk all the way back alone?

As he sits down in his armchair, his heart sinks. He remembers it now. The last time she had gone to the village to meet someone, it had been Joe Burns.

**X**

She walks. For miles, she walks. It helps her not to think, not to feel. She walks until her feet hurt, until she is certain she cannot possibly walk another step. And then, she keeps on walking.

She doesn't think she has ever lied to him before. Omitted the truth, perhaps, or given him versions of the truth, but certainly not telling lies. She wonders if she should feel guilty. To hell with it all, she snorts, in a most unlady-like manner. It's not like he cares about her feelings getting hurt.

She knows she is probably overreacting. They had both had a very tiring day, and he had every right to be frustrated. But his comment had been the kind of thing she would expect from Thomas, or O'Brien, even – but not him. Never him.

She loses track of time. She has no idea where she's going, all she knows, all she's been thinking about ever since the night before, is that she needs to get away. From him, from herself.

She is tired; she has been tired for a long time. Retirement is not an option; she knows she will be a housekeeper until the day she dies. Not because she adores her job, but because it is simply more practical than having to find any other means of income. And after all, hadn't she promised herself over thirty years ago she would not die in a farm?

This is as good as it gets, she says to herself, ignoring the curious looks of the people around her. But is it enough?

She does not eat all day, but does not feel any need to. She does not talk, either, barely a word spoken since she left the house; she knows her voice will be raw come morning. As the sun sets, she knows she should head back to the house.

But she keeps on walking.

**X**

**A.N.: **First of all, I would like to offer my sincere apologies for taking so long to update. As I said in the previous chapter, I decided to begin writing this right at the end of the semester (it's called _procrastinating_), and only now did I find the time to write this part. Second, thank you so very much for the wonderful, wonderful reviews. I am extremely flattered at such praise and even more grateful for all the constructive criticism I've got. I think I got around to answering everyone, and if I didn't, I'm sorry - will try to next time around (hint, hint). I hope you are not too disappointed at this chapter, and, as always, let me know about any mistakes I might have made. Reviews are, of course, most welcome.


	3. III

_I should have cared less about the small problems; I should have died for love._

**X**

He tosses and turns for hours, no different from what he did the night before. The reason is the same; he cannot stop thinking about her. His mind goes through innumerous scenarios: he sees her walking back to the house in the dark, tripping over a stone and falling into the mud; sees her running as she realizes a thunderstorm is coming; and worst of all, sees her heading back before sunset and being approached by – he shudders – a group of men. That's all he sees when he closes his eyes; her, her, her.

It's enough, he decides, and gets up from his bed. It is no good to wonder and imagine and create things. He looks at the clock; close to eleven o'clock. She is most likely safe and sound in her own bed. He left the backdoor unlocked when he retired for the evening two hours ago, so she had probably slipped in unnoticed. Besides, Mrs. Hughes had never, in all the years she's been at Downton, stayed out so late.

He paces up and down, back and forth, for what seems like an eternity. He is aware he will soon wear out holes in the already old rug on his bedroom floor. Should he check in on her? That would, of course, require him to cross the barrier between the men's quarters and the women's – the Walls of Jericho, he had heard Thomas say once -, which would be most improper. What would she say if he knocked on her door at such a late hour? No, he decides, most, most improper.

But, he thinks, what exactly about this whole situation can be classified as _proper_? His housekeeper has been out God knows where for over twelve hours. He is beyond the realms of property, and the realms of sanity will most likely be crossed soon as well.

Three times he puts his hand on the doorknob of his bedroom door. Three times he retreats. Twice he puts his robe on; twice he puts it back on the back of his chair. Countless times he wishes he could take back the hurtful words he said.

Giving up on sleep completely, he finally manages to walk out in the hallway – but turns his head away from the door leading to the women's quarter, so as not to be tempted. He walks into the kitchen, all the while thinking how ridiculous it would look if anyone found the butler making a pot of tea at almost midnight, for no apparent reason.

While he waits for the kettle to boil, he resumes the pacing he started up in his room. He does not even realize it – it seems his legs have a mind of their own. His face in a deep frown as his thoughts go back to her, he almost doesn't hear the slight squeak of the backdoor opening.

**X**

She takes a deep breath. One, two, three, four times. She raises her hand to knock on the door – would there be anyone to open it for her? Surely everyone must be in bed by now. Would Mr. Carson have been careless to the point of leaving the backdoor unlocked? But if it isn't, however in the name of the heavens above will she be able get in without waking the whole house in the process?

Well, one thing she is certain of: she is _not_ going to ring the doorbell. Definitely not.

Even if it means waiting for the sun to rise and for one of the footmen to come and rescue her.

Alright, she scoffs, this might be overdoing it a bit. Her eyes scan the premises, looking for anything that could help her get in. But, alas, it is too dark and her eyesight is not what it once were.

She remembers once, when she had been in Downton for just a couple of years, she and few other housemaids missed the curfew – unintentionally, of course - after going to a dance in the village. She had ended up climbing up a tree and sneaking in Her Ladyship's dressing room… Not exactly a moment she's proud of now.

Forcing her mind back to the present, she sighs tiredly as her feet start to scream with pain. She had not noticed them hurt much as she walked, but now that she is still, it is almost unbearable.

As she shifts her weight between her left and right foot, she realizes she has not even tried turning the doorknob, and almost smacks a hand on her forehead for her stupidity.

The door opens, and she sighs, so very relieved, until she smells it. Not the smell of the freshly made pot of tea; not the smell of a cleaned kitchen. _His_ smell. The smell that always so clearly announced he was close.

_Oh, dear._

**X**

He looks up; she looks up. He tries to think of something to say. She tries to think of a way to escape.

He takes her in: her disheveled hair, the sweat drops forming on her forehead (even though is quite a chilly night), her tired eyes, her trembling hands, her covered in mud ankles and shoes. She has looked better, he decides, but she could look worse. He is just grateful her clothes are not torn and there are no apparent bruises on her body.

She looks him up and down. His hair is curled on his forehead, and she cannot help the little flip her stomach does at the sight – she does love his hair when it's curly. He had been to bed, it was obvious for the recent creases in his pajamas. His eyes tell her sleep's not easy for him - can it be that he is worried about her?

He wonders what he should say first. How worried he had been about her? Or maybe he should just start by asking if she had walked back alone. Yes, that will do, he settles. He opens his mouth to speak, aware that the silence is starting to become an awkward one.

"Mrs. Hughes, would you care to enlighten me as to why you saw fit to stay out heaven knows where until the wee hours of the morning?"

He sees her eyes narrow before realizing what a stupid, stupid thing he had just said. Oh, God, he feels like banging his head on the kitchen table, but he does not think that would help matters much. But, oh, dear, just leave it to him to, using an expression he had heard one of the footmen use once, "put his foot in his mouth" twice in two days.

"Last time I checked, Mr. Carson, I did not need to inform you of any of my whereabouts. It is my day off, I am entitled to do with it as I please" she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest, and he knows they are both in for a long night.

And it is probably not the best time to say he is sorry, he thinks.

"I have a right to know where you are if it interferes with the running of Downton in any way. And need I remind you, Mrs. Hughes, that today was _not_your day off. In theory, you should not have been out today" He does not know how to stop, even though that's the only thing he wants to do; stop arguing with her, stop hurting her.

"The house is still standing, is it not? I imagine things today ran as smoothly as they usually do"

No, they most certainly did not, he wants to say. How could they have, when all he could think about was her, all he could care about was if she would forgive him, all he could worry about was her being safe? Downton today managed without the housekeeper and the butler. How is it still standing is truly a wonder to him.

"Mrs. Hughes" he starts, and a small part of him thinks, hopes, he is ready to apologize. But he knows that's most likely not the case. He does not find out, though, as she interrupts him:

"It will do you well to remember, Mr. Carson, that I am your equal in the staff. You have no more authority over me than I have over you. We stand on the same ground" she sighs, looks down at her feet and back up again. He must have blinked, he thinks, for the next second she is right in front of him. In his personal space.

She has never been this close before.

Yet, he finds he is unable to concentrate on her proximity, on her warmth, on her smell.

What capture his attention are her eyes. Her beautiful, deep blue eyes. Her beautiful, deep and now extremely sad blue eyes.

And he feels like banging his head on the hard wood of the kitchen table again.

"I am not one of your footmen, Mr. Carson. Don't try to act as if I am" her voice is soft, lacking its usual sharpness. For a moment, he thinks her eyes are moist, but she blinks and it's gone.

The Scottish Dragon. That is what they call her behind her back. He knows it, of course. And he thinks he'd rather face the Scottish Dragon of a housekeeper than this sad, hurt, broken Elsie. He is a coward, indeed, for he cannot even bear to look into her eyes now.

He finds himself looking somewhere else instead. Somewhere completely inappropriate, especially under the circumstances. And he is not only _looking._ He is also _leaning_towards it. As if just looking at it shamelessly is not bad enough. God forgive him, but he feels such a strong urge to kiss her lips. Stronger probably than any he had ever had over the years. He wants to kiss her, needs to. He is well aware that his eyes are now half closed, and that somehow his left hand found its way to her right forearm, gripping it tightly. He leans in a bit more. He hears her breath quicken, and feels it warm on his lips. He leans in _just a little bit more_…

And suddenly he is not holding her anymore. Suddenly she is a good ten feet away from him.

"Good night, Charles" she says, her voice nothing but a whisper, as she leaves the kitchen, headed to the servant's quarters.

He sighs.

He does not think she has ever said his name before.

**X**

**A.N.:** Could it be? Two updates in the same week? That's summer vacations for you, dears! (It's summer here, so bear with me for a bit). Thank you all for your reviews on the last chapter, and I hope this one lives up to the standard! Oh, and Elsie's memory of the one other time she missed curfew... It was, quite shamelessly, I admit, taken from Miss Puppet's "Romance must advertise". So, if you haven't already, go read that one, it's bloody brilliant! I seem to have run out of ways to ask for reviews without sounding as if I'm asking for reviews (so bloody creative), so I'll just say, I appreciate any and all kinds of feedback. Thank you for reading and have a lovely rest-of-week-but-not-quite-the-weekend-yet.


	4. IV

_I should have loved more, cried more. I should have seen the sun rise._

**X**

She will not, she tells herself, go back down to the kitchen. Absolutely not. It is completely out of the question.

It does not matter, of course not, that she had almost kissed him not five minutes ago.

Or that _he _had almost kissed _her_.

It does not matter who almost kissed who. It does not even matter that a kiss almost happened at midnight in the kitchen of Downton Abbey.

Between the butler and the housekeeper.

She paces her bedroom up and down; unaware that he had done the same thing in his own half an hour ago. But, she tells herself, it does not matter. Come morning, he will have, most likely, forgotten what almost happened. So, why should it matter?

The more she paces her bedroom (up and down, back and forth), the more she wonders if it really happened. Not the kiss, of course, but the moment. Could it have been a hallucination of some sort? Obviously not, she tells herself, rather forcefully. Such things do not exist. Besides, she had definitely sensed an atmosphere. And if there is one thing Elsie Hughes knows –and loathes- is an _atmosphere._

Except that one had not been half bad. Not bad at all, in fact. It had been the kind of atmosphere she could learn to live with.

She looks at the clock, and gasps in shock. Surely it can't be just three hours before she has to rise and start her day? Well, no use sleeping now, she thinks.

Taking off her hat, she wonders if he felt the same things she did at their proximity. She wonders if he also found himself unable to sleep because of it. She wonders if he had been as disappointed as she had been when she stepped back.

But then she shakes her head. Of course not. He had been, most likely, disgusted at her behaviour. Hopefully, he will be able to forgive her in the light of day, and chalk it up to her tiredness.

She remembers the way he had gripped her arm – held on for dear life was more like it. She does not know, however, if he had grabbed her to keep her at a distance or to bring her closer. And this nags her the rest of the night.

And just when the more optimistic, sentimental side of her is winning over the more rational one, she thinks _of course not_. Surely he had not felt anything close to what she had in that fleeting moment of what could only be described as madness.

Of course not.

She has been, she thinks, telling herself that quite a lot lately.

**X**

Of course not, he says to himself. Of course she is not still awake. Of course she didn't spare him a moment's thought before falling asleep. She had looked exhausted when she came in, which was, of course, to be expected, after spending a whole day doing heaven knows what with Mr. Burns.

As he lies awake in his bed, for the second time that night, he wonders what might have happened if he had kissed her. All the possible (and impossible, he admits) scenarios run through his head – the looks on her face, the things she would have said. He wonders if she's doing the same thing.

But no, she isn't. Of course not.

And just as he is closing his eyes, thinking sleep will finally claim his mind, he realizes the full implications of what he – they- had done. Or almost did. Not that it matters much now; they both know what would have happened.

He had almost kissed her. He, Charles Carson, dignified butler of Downton Abbey, had almost kissed the housekeeper of said house. That she is the woman he has loved for two decades has absolutely no weight on the matter.

The problem is, he says to himself, that this could create quite the uncomfortable situation for them, come morning. How is he supposed to work with her, now that he has not his fantasies, but a memory, a memory of a real, tangible moment, working itself into his mind in the most inappropriate of times, as he's sure it will happen?

Not only had his behaviour been the most improper – the way he had grabbed her arm, for heaven's sake! –, but it had also been most unwelcome. It had to have been, when she had spent the whole day in the company of another man, most likely doing what he had thought of doing in that moment.

Is it possible for him to make himself anymore of a fool?, he wonders. Saying all those hurtful things to her practically every time he sees her, so much that he's come to fear speaking with her again; and, if that's not enough, embarrassing her in such a way, advancing on her like some kind of vulture. No doubt she now thinks he was trying to take advantage of her obvious emotional weakness.

She is probably disgusted by him. He groans. Charles Carson can take many things, but Elsie Hughes being in any way upset with him is not, has never been, one of those.

Closing his eyes, he pretends he still has the whole night ahead of him, and not just three hours, before he has to face her again.

After what seems like an eternity, he gives up. Opening his eyes, he stares out his window, and catches a glimpse of a rising sun. Lulled by the first rays of the morning and by the premise that tomorrow is, indeed, another day, he finally drifts off to sleep, not once thinking that he truly has no idea what Mrs. Hughes had done that day, or whom she had been with.

**X**

**A.N.: **I need to start, of course, by apologizing for the huge delay. I've been suffering from what I think is called writer's block (but can easily be described as _brain being too lazy to be creative). _I don't particularly like this chapter, but I felt I needed to post something before all of you got fed up with the waiting. I promise next chapter will be less thinking and more talking. Thank you for all your incredibly lovely, absolutely marvellous and most kind reviews. You have no idea how happy they make me.


	5. V

_I should have risked more, and even made more mistakes; I should have done all the things I've wanted to do._

**X**

_In a perfect world, he would have kissed her._ That's the first thought in his mind as he wakes up.

_In a perfect world, he would have held her in his arms the moment she walked in the door the night before; _he says to himself as he adjusts his tie before walking out of his room.

_In a perfect world, the _recent events_ wouldn't have happened at all_, he thinks grimly as he sits down on his chair at the head of the table.

Once he assures himself his staff is seated, he indicates to Mrs. Patmore that she can serve breakfast. The chatter around the table seems to be louder this morning, or maybe he's simply more impatient today. Risking a look to his right, he finds Mrs. Hughes in deep conversation with Mr. Bates. For some reason, this upsets him more than any other thing that happened in the last two days.

Ever since she became a housekeeper, they had maintained the same morning routine. She would give him a small, near imperceptible smile in response to his "good morning". As they started breakfast, she would turn to him and wordlessly ask him if there was anything he needed to discuss with her before their day began. There was always some small household matter that would keep them occupied for a few minutes, before they both turned their attention elsewhere.

And only then would he concentrate on his meal, or on anything else for that matter.

But, today, she didn't even look at him. He feels short of breath for a moment. Then he realizes how downright ridiculous it is to be upset by such a small thing.

Still, the sight of her turned back at the breakfast table haunts him all day long.

**X**

When she opens her eyes in the morning, it feels as if she's just closed them. She doesn't think she's ever been this tired, both emotionally and physically.

She takes longer than usual to pin up her hair, doing it all twice before she's satisfied. She dresses slowly, fastening and unfastening her corset three times before she decides it is good enough. She buttons up her dress entirely before realizing she put on the wrong one.

With one long sigh, she admits she is just _stalling_. She doesn't want to have to see him so early in the morning. Quite immaturely, she looks around her room for any other excuse to keep her there for a moment more.

She walks past him on her way to the library, but he doesn't look at her. He is, most likely, also trying to avoid her. _This will work out quite well, then, _she thinks, bitterly. She doesn't see him again during her morning round.

Later, as he approaches the servant's table for breakfast, she notices how he seems to look everywhere but at her. She feels an unexpected wave of hurt. Hadn't she, less than an hour ago, put on her _corset_ three _bloody_ times only because she didn't want to see him? She should be grateful he was having similar feelings about her.

But still, it hurts. So she turns and engages Mr. Bates in a conversation. Avoids Mr. Carson before he has the chance to avoid her.

**X**

After serving lunch, he retreats to his pantry and does something he has been doing a lot lately: think.

Thinks about the way she ignored him during the morning round. Thinks about how odd it is not to talk to her at all. Thinks about barging into her sitting room and demanding she hear him out. Thinks about all the ways he could start up a conversation with her. For the rest of the day, that's all he does; he thinks.

He should get up and _do _something, he knows. He should ask her if he can come by her sitting room after dinner. Yes, that's what he'll do, he decides. She will probably say no, but he will insist, and she'll eventually agree. Even though he doesn't yet know what to say to her, he knows he needs to say something. Or maybe just listen to her as she lashes out all the anger and hurt she must be feeling at him. Yes, he will do that.

Walking to his door and opening it, he finds himself, for the first time all day, face to face with Mrs. Hughes.

**X**

It is highly unlikely, she thinks, that they'll be able to spend the whole day without talking to each other. Unfortunately. Being equals – despite what he may think – _and_ the heads of the staff, it was inevitable that they would end up having to communicate.

Well, not inevitable. She can resort to a _messenger_. Very foolish, of course, to have one of the maids do the talking for her, but she thinks she's earned herself the right to be foolish every once in a while. However, as she makes her way to his pantry, she finds all the halls deserted. Not even Daisy, who never goes upstairs, is around. Sighing, she lifts her hand to knock on the door to his pantry just when he opens it from the other side.

**X**

He is well aware that he is staring. Even though he was about to go looking for her, the sight of her nervously standing in front of his door surprises him. And gives him just a tiny piece of hope. Hope that she was looking for him for the same reason he was her.

"Mrs. Hughes" he starts, when it becomes clear she's not keen on saying anything.

His voice startles her, somehow, and she remembers why she's there in the first place. "Mr. Carson, Her Ladyship would like to talk to you in the drawing room"

And she turns around and leaves. Not looking at him once. _She's certainly perfecting that skill,_ he mutters to her retreating back.

For a moment, he considers following her. It doesn't last long, his butler side winning over the more emotional one.

But even as he listens to Her Ladyship talking about the dinner guests, he knows he will go to her sitting room tonight. And if he can't talk things over with his friend Elsie, then let him at least solve his issues with his housekeeper. Whatever way, he knows he can't stand another day like the one he is having.

**X**

**A.N.:** I know. New chapter. I can't believe it myself. Thank you very, very much for all your reviews, alerts and PMs. And, of course, for being so patient.


	6. VI

_**A.N:** _Thank you for your reviews, they were very much appreciated. And, of course, if you want to keep them coming… On another note, this is dedicated to the lovely Loganites of Tumblr, who make my otherwise unbearable days so much brighter and funnier, and to OSUSprinks, who has been nothing short of wonderful to me.

**X**

_I should have accepted people as they come. Each one of us has joys and sorrows we carry in our hearts._

**X**

He knows it's time. The house is locked up; the servants are safely tucked away in their rooms. The only ones still up are the butler and the housekeeper.

And the butler, he thinks, has never been so nervous in his life.

Maybe, perhaps, that evening so long ago, the very first time he had served dinner to the family, while still a footman. But the memory is so old he now wonders if it ever even happened.

Tonight he is nervous for a different reason entirely. In fact, as he sits in his pantry, he wonders if he really should be nervous at all. Come to think of it, it had all been a silly little argument blown out of proportion.

And then he remembers her eyes as she stood in the kitchen at midnight. He had never, in all of the years they've worked together, seen her eyes look so sad.

It seems to him as if the words he said to her were just an excuse. An excuse to start something they've been on the edge of for a very long time. He is just not sure what. But since the war began, they have been at odds, what with her complaining about him working too much and him – _politely_, he fools himself – brushing off her concerns. And not only that – they had been disagreeing with each other more often. Maybe the recent events were simply the last straw.

If this is true, then he needs to end it as soon as possible. Even though he does not yet know what to say – he begins to suspect he never will. And seeing how things went the last time he did not think his words through…

More than nervous, he is afraid. Afraid he will make an even bigger mess out of the situation if he tries to mend it.

**X**

She tells herself she is not waiting for him. After all, wasn't she, just this morning, avoiding him at all costs? The only reason she is still in her sitting room is because she is behind on paperwork. That's what she tells herself, and as she starts working, she almost believes it.

It is not that she wants to talk to him. She does not want to hear half-hearted apologies. But she does want him to seek her out. She wants to feel as if she matters, as if her opinion of him matters, even if it's just on a work-related basis. She tries not to think that this could be considered as playing hard to get. Because if he does, by some miracle, want to talk to her, she will listen. Even though she does not _want_ to, she reminds herself.

She knows he is in his pantry; she had seen the light on under the door when she made her way to her sitting room not long ago. So, she waits, while telling herself she is not.

**X**

He knows she is still in her sitting room. He would have heard her footsteps if she had left. Had this been an ordinary day, she would stop by to say goodnight before retiring to bed. But, he sighs, the days have not been ordinary for quite some time.

There is really no use in dragging this on any longer. As he steps out of his pantry, he realizes this is it, as dramatic as it may sound. They will either restore their friendship fully, or damage it even further. It is either do or die. And by heavens, he hopes it is the former.

He blinks, and finds himself in front of her door. Not that he is surprised; he had made his way to her sitting room too many times to know it was imprinted in his subconscious.

Without a moment's hesitation, surprisingly, he raises his hand and knocks on her door. He doesn't realize he is holding his breath, though.

**X**

She is about to give up. It is quite late, she is quite tired, and she has been waiting for quite a long time.

She tries not to think of the reason she didn't get any sleep last night, the reason she most likely won't tonight, either.

She decides to wait five more minutes. When those five minutes come and go, she tells herself just five more. Five minutes end up turning into ten, then into half an hour, then into her standing up to put out the oil lamp.

Then she hears it. Faint, soft, almost begging not to be heard. But she does, and in two seconds she walks to the door and opens it.

She does not know what she was expecting, but it was certainly not this. She almost didn't recognize him, with the dejected look in his face and his sagged shoulders. He seems smaller, somehow. She starts to think that maybe the last two days had had an effect on him too. That is something she hadn't even considered up until now.

"Mrs. Hughes, may I come in?" his voice startles her. It's deep and strong, as it has always been. It clashes terribly with the way he looks now.

She says nothing, but opens the door wider and gets out of the way. He nods, and she knows he understands she will not, does not want to say anything.

"May I?" he says, motioning to the settee. Again, she says nothing, but he sits down anyway.

She waits.

**X**

From the moment he walked in he knew she was not going to make it easy for him. Not that he had expected her to. Still, as he sits down and looks at her, he can tell she is waiting for something. He can only hope he can meet her expectations.

"Mrs. Hughes" he says again "I need to apologize"

Now would be the perfect time for her to jump in and say he doesn't have to, he thinks. Irrationally, of course. He knows he deserves to make the effort it takes him to say every single word.

"I should never have gotten worked up about something as silly as the wine" It's not silly to him, definitely not, but it is to her, and right now that is the only thing that matters "Most importantly, I should never have taken my frustration out on you. I made you feel as if the work you do is not important, when we both know Downton could not survive a day without you. It was very wrong of me"

He sighs. What more can he say? He should have given the matter more thought, he should have thought it through once, twice, a thousand times, to avoid this, looking at her like the utter fool he is.

"In all the years we have worked together, I have always thought of you as my equal" Not really, not all the time. In so many occasions he had thought of himself as beneath her. He is sure Elsie Hughes had never, could never have, done something as shameful as what he had done in his past. She is so much better than him in so many ways "I profoundly apologize for making you feel as if I thought otherwise"

She could, he thinks, do something other than look at him with those unreadable dark blue eyes. It is rather unsettling.

"I hope you can forgive me"

He waits.

**X**

She knows everything he is going to say before he says it. She knows him that well; listens to the words before they come out of his mouth.

She sees him waiting, wanting her to say everything's well and forgotten. If she says it, it will be a lie. Even though she will forget it for the time being, who's to say the memory of his hurtful words won't plague her late at night, after a particularly bad day? So, she says the only thing she can think of saying.

"You need sleep, Mr. Carson"

He cringes because that is not what he wants to hear. He wants, maybe needs, even, to hear her say she forgives him. She does. How could she not? She has understood long ago that no matter what this man wants to do with her head, with her heart, she will simply _let him_. The Scottish Dragon of a housekeeper is completely powerless against him.

She tries not to think that she will never hear what she wants to hear from him.

The sorrow, the pain, will come later, when she is alone with her thoughts again. But now, she looks at him, and hopes he can read in her eyes what she, for some reason, can't bring herself to say.

**X**

He feels as if he can finally breathe after days, as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders.

He understands, not without some delay, that her words are not an attempt to change the subject. Her saying he needs sleep is her way of telling him they are back to what they always were. Her caring for him because she knows if she doesn't, he will work himself to death. They are, after all, colleagues. Partners. Friends.

He tries not to think that they will never be what he wants them to be.

He doesn't know what he should do now. Stay? Leave? Ask her about her day? Discuss tomorrow's dinner course? Say goodnight?

He settles on the latter. Neither one of them had gotten any sleep the night before, and it is late.

He stands up.

**X**

_Don't go_, she wants to say. Almost grabs at his sleeve, like a child.

She doesn't want to be alone with her mind yet. It is still early. There is an awful lot of thinking someone can do with so many hours ahead of them before a new day starts.

And there are so many things she wants to say, so many things she wants to ask him. What happened in the kitchen last night? Because right now she is sure something happened there, but if he leaves her alone to think she will change her mind, she knows it. And the last thing she wants to do is change her mind. She had seen something in his eyes then, something she had seen many times before but had never understood it. _Please,_ she begged in her mind_, tell me what it is. Explain it to me_.

_Or don't say anything at all._

_Just don't go. Not yet._

Less than an hour ago, she didn't even want to see him.

**X**

She stands up too, and he thinks he sees her make a move as if to raise her hand. For a second, he can see her grabbing his arm, asking him to stay.

Ridiculous, of course. She stands perfectly still, hands at her sides, eyes burning his skin as they have always done.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes"

She says nothing as he walks to the door, and he hates it. He wishes she would say something, do something. _Just break the silence, because I can't take it anymore._

She had been silent for two days. He needs to hear her speak.

He closes his hand over the doorknob, hesitates, and almost turns back to her again. He feels there is something he is missing. Something else that needs to be said. He doesn't know what, but it is there, hanging heavily on the air.

He looks over his shoulder at her. She is looking back at him with the same expression she wore all evening, and somehow it's different – he thinks he can detect a hint of desperation in her eyes.

And suddenly it makes sense to him. He remembers his thoughts from earlier, as he left his pantry, but now the words hold a different meaning completely.

_It is either do or die_

He takes a deep breath as he turns back to her, in time to see her eyes narrowing, as she asks herself what he is doing.

_Do or die_

A million thoughts run through his head, and he cannot focus. But, strangely, his mind has never been clearer.

_Do or die_

There is so much he should have done. So much he shouldn't have, also. And all his life has been spent in sorrow for not being able to do things all over again. He knows, he has always known, it's too late to go back. But it cannot ever be too late to move forward.

"Mrs. Hughes" he starts, firmly, not a hint of hesitation in his voice.

_Do or die_

"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

_Do or die_

"Elsie"

_Do_

**X**


	7. VII

**A.N.: **I know you most likely thought that this story was dead. But yes, I'm finally, finally finishing this. I hope you're not too disappointed with this ending. For a very long time I tried to write it, but inspiration decided to strike me during a week I'm away from home and have no computer. So this was typed on a phone, and it took me a whole morning to write. If you see any typos, please let me know, so I can correct them next time I'm in the vicinity of a device with REAL KEYS and not those touch-y things that are the devil's spawn, in my humble and old-fashioned opinion.

**X**

_I should have complicated less, worked less. I should have seen the sun set._

**X**

She does not remember the last time he said her name.

He used to do it all the time, of course, when she was the headhousemaid.

She used to think she would never forget how it sounded in his voice. However, the years went by, and she found other things, more important things, to occupy her mind with.

But as she hears it again, she wonders how in the world she could have forgotten it.

It's foolish, it's overly dramatic, it's not like her at all, but she thinks it's the most beautiful thing she has ever heard.

It sounds just like it did before. And still, she doesn't believe he has ever said her name quite like that.

**X**

He does not know how to start. How does one overcome decades of reticence in mere minutes?

A few days ago, he would have been appalled at the idea of telling her. A few days ago, he was content to never do it.

But ever since their argument (he feels foolish thinking of it as_ their_ argument – he had been the only one doing the arguing), it has been brimming in his subconscious: the knowledge that he cannot possibly go on another day without at least trying.

"Your friendship has always been the most important of my life"

There are a million different words he could have started this with. Yet, somehow, he knows there are no better words than the ones he spoke. Especially as she answers, quickly and firmly, as if she had rehearsed this conversation in her mind a thousand times and knew what he was going to say before he said it.

**X**

"You will always have it, Mr. Carson"

The words tumble out of her mouth and she wonders how long they had been lurking around in her mind without her knowledge.

She is surprised, but that registers only after she answers him. It's the first time he has ever acknowledged their more personal connection. That they were friends on top of colleagues was always implied, but never admitted.

But perhaps he feels the need to assure himself – both of them – that their friendship remains intact. It does, of course it does. How could she ever deny herself this?

She feels alone enough as it is.

**X**

She is waiting. She knows there is something he wants to say, she knows there is something he doesn't know how to say.

What else does she know?, he wonders. Does she know he thinks she's beautiful? Does she know he compares all the women he meets at Downton, Ripon, London, with her? Does she know that whenever he enters a room, his eyes seek her first? Does she know that he tries his best not to smile whenever he sees her?

Does she?

He doubts it. Sometimes he thinks he doesn't even know it himself.

That she said 'Mr. Carson' instead of 'Charles', even after he used her first name, doesn't go unnoticed by him.

Perhaps it is her way of saying that anything more intimate in between them is unthinkable, that even their friendship has very clear boundaries.

She is his best friend. They can't even bring themselves to call each other by their first names.

It occurs to him that he knows much more about Mrs. Hughes than about Elsie.

He knows Mrs. Hughes is a hard worker, he knows she cares about the maids under her jurisdiction, he knows nothing irritates her more than Mrs. Patmore asking for the store cupboard key.

About Elsie, he doesn't know much.

Except that he loves her.

**X**

"Is there anything else you wish to discuss, Mr. Carson?"

She does not know what she is waiting for.

It's late.

She has waited for too long already.

**X**

He has waited for too long already.

The clock ticks, the minutes go by.

His past increases as his future recedes.

He has more years behind him than ahead of him.

He doesn't know how it happened. Sometimes, it feels as if he was on a stage with Charles Griggs just the night before. Perhaps because he replays those memories often – so often that it feels as if he's there, and he has the chance to do it over again and make different choices than the ones he made. But he cannot. They are just memories, set down permanently as if they were carved in marble. He is condemned to watch himself do the same things over and over again.

For years, he had been stuck on _yesterday._

It is, he thinks, time for a change.

"Yes, there is, Mrs. Hughes"

**X**

_Mrs. Hughes._

Of course.

Elsie is now but a memory - has been a memory for many years now.

How foolish of her to even care about it.

**X**

"I have been meaning to tell you something for a while now"

With each word spoken, he feels his heart growing lighter.

A ridiculous thought, of course. There is no such thing.

He has turned into a hopeless romantic in a matter of minutes.

"For a great many years, in fact"

No, not hopeless, he thinks, as he takes one step closer to her.

Quite the opposite, actually.

**X**

She resists the urge to step back when he steps closer.

It wouldn't do to stand too close to him.

She hopes he doesn't notice the slight catch in her voice as she says "Yes, Mr. Carson?"

She resists the urge to step forward when he takes one more step towards her.

It wouldn't be appropriate.

**X**

He hopes for many things. But most of all, he hopes that this very moment will not soon be added to the list of memories that often play themselves in his head - as if they're mocking him, beckoning him to come closer, to live them again, to live them differently this time.

He hopes to never wish to live this moment again, differently.

"You do know, I hope, that your friendship means a great deal to me. But I am afraid you don't know exactly how much"

He doesn't think he could ever explain it to her.

"_You_ mean a great deal to me, Elsie"

The words rush out of his mouth and he wishes he could take them back and deliver them again more carefully, so that their meaning would not be lost.

**X**

There's an eternal pause in between each one of his words, it seems to her.

And when he finishes, it is as if she had just lived her whole life in one minute. She is exhausted.

But she is ready.

There are so many things she would like to say now. She closes the distance in between them, and takes his hand in hers, cradling it, as if his strong palm is somehow more fragile than her small ones. She is not aware she is smiling.

But she doesn't say anything. It seems she never knows what to say.

**X**

She always knows what to do.

His heart leaps as he sees the smile on her face.

His composure breaks as he feels the warmth of her touch.

He pulls her to him, strongly and swiftly, but she's halfway there already. He feels her arms around him, and wonders, for a second, how exactly she ended up resting her forehead on his chest.

But it doesn't matter. His arms around her shoulders – she's much shorter than him, but he never realized how much – keep her close to him, and he hesitates only for a second before kissing her temple.

_I love you_. The words run wildly around his head, but are not the ones he speaks.

"Stay with me"

She looks up at him, silently asking him what he means.

"Stay with me, Elsie. I know I'm an old fool, and you can do so much better than me, but please, stay with me" his words are desperate and urgent. He's aware he is begging, but it doesn't matter.

For the first time, nothing else matters.

_I love you._

**X**

She laughs. She laughs because who else is there, if not him? Who else could it be? It's him, it has always been him, and she tells him so as she kisses him.

Joe Burns never loved her – he loved the idea of her. A hardworking and good woman he could build a farm and a family with. She never loved him either, but sometimes she thought that they could have been quite happy together. After all, there is more to a life together than simply love, isn't there?

But now, as she feels Charles' smiling lips under hers, she understands how foolish she had been to ever think that she could be happy any other way.

**X**

_I love you._

He thinks it as she brings his head down to kiss him.

_I love you._

He plays with it in his mind as her lips caress his softly.

_I love you._

He concentrates on it as their kiss grows passionate.

_I love you._

He says it as they break apart.

**X**

She never knows what to say.

But she does this time.

"I love you, Charles"

**X**

"_The world does not turn on the style of a dinner."_

No, it doesn't.

**X**

**The End.**


End file.
